I step out of my house, determined. I have two major obstacles to conquer, before I get to where I want:
- The armory phase
- The battleground phase
It isn’t going to be easy but I am resolute about doing it anyway.
You see, I’m talking about taking a rickshaw to work everyday. It is a mere 10-minute journey that requires 30 minutes worth of preparation.
Coming from Singapore, where buses and trains are available every five minutes and telecasted through mobile phone apps, my means of getting to work in Karachi have become a challenging game of sorts.
I need to find a rickshaw driver, decide if I can trust him, tell him where the Dawn office is, haggle on the price and manage to remain seated during the rocky journey there.
It might seem menial and ridiculous because I could just hire a rickshaw driver on a monthly basis and skip the whole process. But with a limited allowance and my fervor to embrace Pakistani culture as a whole – I’ve decided to take this challenge, every morning.
Also, my supervisor at Dawn, Hasaan, has already discouraged my brilliant idea of sitting on the rooftop of buses and commuting to work, for safety reasons.
The rickshaw is indeed the attractive alternative to look at what Karachi had to offer.
In a car, where the windows are rolled up to the beggars and tinted to avoid onlookers, I don’t feel as much of a voyager as I do when I am in a rickshaw. - it’s a more interactive experience. And here’s a look at it:
Phase one: Armory
I begin by looking for the right weapons: The Rickshaw Driver.
Many drivers crowd outside a biryani shop along Khayaban-e-Hafiz, sitting in their rickshaw; smoking, eating, drinking chai or just chit chatting with their fellow rickshaw drivers.
I usually walk past, trying not to appear intimidated by the sea of men.
I usually pick the first lot, believing their approachability to be a good starting ground to establish a friendship. You see, I’ve come to learn in my past month of being in Karachi, that almost all conversations, bargains and deals are fostered on friendly relations, even with people you may have just met.
So I take it upon myself, to establish an association with the rickshaw driver and say, ‘Asslamalikum’ and then smile.
The ones who earnestly respond to a smile and go, “Kidher jaogi?” (Where do you want to go?) are also the ones I approach first.
I respond with, “Dawn office.” Eight out of every 10 times, they do not know where that is.
So I progress to the next question in broken Urdu, saying it’s near Shaheen Complex and from there “seedha” and “PSO petrol pump kay right side na”.
Usually, there is some vague understanding, where they nods their heads.
Phase one is nearing an end. But the most difficult part remains: Deciding on a price.
I throw forward in my best Urdu accent, “Kitna” (How much?) and await a favourable and not-ripped-off price. It must be my accent, my short cropped red hair and the look in my eyes that they see through, as they slyly bear their teeth with offers like Rs300 or Rs250 (I have been helpfully informed by colleagues to not give more than Rs150).
Equipped for this overcharge, I dramatically throw my head back and exclaim “Bus, Sasta please!”
Most drivers are extremely fascinated by the rapid movements of my facial expressions and they laugh. Others, play along.
On my best days, I’ve reduced the price by Rs100 and on bad days just about Rs20. I’m still holding my record of Rs100 but that took a lot of patient talking in poor Urdu for about 20 minutes.
Phase Two: Battle ground
There could have been no scuffle in the world that could have prepared me for the type of muscle mass required for a rickshaw ride in Karachi.
Despite having gone on a tuk tuk in Bangkok and Laos and an auto in India There is nothing that can compare to what goes on with a rickshaw over here.
It’s a cacophony of sounds, movements and smells. It literally physically propels me into a space where I am bombarded by horn sounds, motorcycles zooming past, people talking, beggars chanting, the smell of biryani at one street corner, and chicken roasting with curry spices and chili at the next, and of course, the ferocious catapulting jerks of the rickshaw ride itself.
Sometimes, I wonder what it would take for me to get thrown out of the rickshaw but my rickshaw drivers always maneuvers the vehicle to the ends of pit holes and over any uneven ground to keep me at the edge of my seat, but never out of the rickshaw.
I am almost there, keeping my feet propped, holding on to the seat as I watch the distances covered.
About 5 minutes more...
“Yes! Another’s day accomplished of Richshaw Run” I cheer to myself.
Yet, as I step out to hand ‘Bhaiya’ the money, he drowns me in a pool of Urdu, “Wapis jana hai? Kitna time lugay ga?…"
And again, I am washed with a new sense of unfamiliarity, even on familiar ground, as I reply with a “ji, ji, ji” (my response to everything I don’t quite understand yet.)
But, for that, there is always a next time, next round, tomorrow.